


Two Virginians and an Immigrant Walk Into a Room

by RedBerrie



Series: Helpless [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Another "Room Where It Happens" Fic, Canon Era, Extremely Dubious Consent, Kinky Political Negotiations, M/M, Rough Sex, Sex for Favors, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBerrie/pseuds/RedBerrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Reason, compromise ... do whatever it takes. Figure it out, Alexander."</i>
</p><p>Madison and Jefferson are merciless, but Hamilton will lose his job if he doesn't get this financial plan through Congress. What will he be willing to trade away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Virginians and an Immigrant Walk Into a Room

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, I've tried to strike a balance between historical fact and the sheer entertainment value of the musical. Every character looks exactly like the actor who plays them in the original Broadway cast lineup. Because of that, race and racism isn't a factor in day-to-day dealings and relationships. Things like slavery are based in politics and nationality, not race. The events that happen will be a mixture of the play and the historical record. I'll try to detail what's what in the end notes in each chapter.
> 
> For those not in the know, Alexander Hamilton is played by Lin-Manuel Miranda, Thomas Jefferson is played by Daveed Diggs, James Madison is played by Okieriete Onaodowan, George Washington is played by Christopher Jackson, and Aaron Burr is played by Leslie Odom Jr.
> 
> This fic is a prequel of sorts to "[I Am Ruined; I Am Helpless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7270969)". You **DO NOT** need to read that fic before you read this one. I do ask, however, that anyone who has read both not post spoilers for IAR;IAH in the comments on this fic.
> 
> This fic is going to get rough. Those tags are there for a reason. Please read at your own discretion.

"Ultimately, you need the votes. Your goal now needs to be to convince as many congressmen as possible to vote for your plan."

President George Washington sat behind his mahogany desk in his office in the second Presidential Mansion in New York City, the picture of stoic enterprise – calmly writing at his desk while logically detailing a plan of action.

His Treasury Secretary, however, was anything but. There were many words that could be applied to Alexander Hamilton, but "stoic" wasn't one of them. Currently, the man was pacing in front of George's desk; George fancied he could hear the groove the smaller man was carving into the wooden floor with his incessant back-and-forth. "Madison's being intransigent," he complained. "He don't even have a plan of his own; he's just killing mine as a matter of course."

"Then convince Madison that his course is unhelpful," George replied. "Reason, compromise ... do whatever it takes. Figure it out, Alexander." George let a bit of his old Commander-in-Chief bark slip into the last sentence.

That bark had never failed him before, and it wouldn't start today; Alexander's head shot up, as responsive as always to his commander's orders. "Sir?"

"If you fail, the South will likely call for your resignation," George informed him, mentioning a suspicion that had been growing as of late. "I don't want to have to replace you, young man. Figure it out, before it comes to that."

* * *

Leaving Washington's office, Alexander was so lost in thought that he almost tripped over the man patiently waiting outside to meet with the President. He looked up to apologize, only for the words to die on his lips. Naturally, the fates hated him enough to make that man Thomas Jefferson. Judging by the barely contained smirk, Jefferson has heard everything.

"Problems with your debt plan, Secretary Hamilton?" he asked with false civility.

"Don't worry, Secretary Jefferson," Alexander responded. "It's nothing insurmountable." He smiled politely at the other man, an expression that didn't reach his eyes.

Jefferson smirked at the slight. "Yes, because one of your defining traits is flexibility," he said blandly enough that Alexander couldn't reasonably take outward offense at the obviously sarcastic comment.

Alex took offense anyway. "Don't you have some ass to kiss?" he asked, inclining his head in the general direction of Washington's office door.

"Actually, I'm not here to talk to Washington; I'm here to talk to you," was the unexpected reply.

"Oh?" Alexander was immediately suspicious.

"Yes," Jefferson said, assuming that better-than-you look that people above a certain net worth seemed to be born with. "It's been far too long since I've reminded you that _you don't have the votes_." His smile was smugly self-satisfied. "I believe it's you who will be kissing ass, Hamilton."

Alexander gritted his teeth. "Turn around and bend over; I'll show you just how much ass I'm prepared to kiss."

Jefferson actually laughed at that. "I'm perfectly amicable to letting you," he replied. "Who knows; you kiss well enough, I might even help you convince Madison to pass your little debt bill."

Alex blinked in surprise. Was he suggesting what Alex thought he was suggesting? "Are you saying that he'd be agreeable to a compromise?" he asked.

Jefferson just grinned. "We'll see how it goes," he responded. Then, involuntarily, his eyes strayed down to Alex's lips before jerking back up to his eyes.

Ah. _So that's what this is about_ , he thought. When Jefferson talked about ass-kissing, he was being literal.

Alexander felt a seductive expression blossom on his face. It involved hooded eyes and a lopsided grin, and it had been known to drive ladies (and more than a few gentlemen) to distraction. This kind of transaction was one he had performed many times before. And while he hadn't gotten on his knees for a man since the War, he wasn't adverse to doing it again. Not even for Jefferson. Not with the nation and his legacy on the line.

 _Do whatever it takes_ , Washington's voice echoed in his head.

"Mr. Jefferson," he said, "I believe that I'd like to meet with you and your colleague to go over my financial plan. I'm sure we can come to a mutually beneficial compromise."

Jefferson just grinned. "I thought you'd never ask," he said, making Alexander grit his teeth again. "Shall we say, eight o'clock this Sunday?"

"That will work for me," Alexander replied.

"Excellent," Jefferson said. "I'll inform James." Alexander wondered if Jefferson would demand payment of an intimate sort for his help; and if so, if he would demand it for himself as well as Madison. Alexander had never done two people at once.

Still, never let it be said that Alexander Hamilton didn't rise to a challenge. "I'll see you Sunday."

* * *

Aaron Burr would never admit it, but he loved New York City. He loved the vivaciousness, the noise and the chaos; he loved the haughty buildings with their dignified facades; he loved the sheer multitudes of human culture and nations represented by the city's population. Some evenings, he loved nothing more than to simply walk up and down the streets of the city. Somehow, the hustle and bustle of the crowds, instead of putting him on edge, calmed him. It was one of the most relaxing pastimes he knew.

All of that went out the window, of course, when Alexander Hamilton passed him on the streets.

It was too much to ask for the smaller man to not notice him in the crowd. Burr sighed in resignation as he watched Hamilton's eyes light up in recognition. “Mr. Secretary,” Burr greeted him.

“Mr. Burr, sir!” Hamilton replied, in that obnoxious way he had of saying Burr's name simply because it amused him that it rhymed. Burr attempted to indicate his desire for solitude by continuing to walk past Hamilton. Hamilton, of course, didn't even notice the hint as he turned to match his own pace and direction to Burr's.

Burr gritted his teeth. He hated small talk. “Have you heard the news about our dear friend, the late General Mercer?” he began, picking a topic that not even Hamilton could take as an invitation to debate.

“No,” was the only reply that Hamilton gave.

Burr forged on. “You know Claremont Street, downtown?”

“Yeah.”

So, fine, it seemed that Burr would be responsible for carrying this conversation. “They renamed the street in his honor. Mercer Street.” Burr paused a moment, but Hamilton didn't seem to desire to reply. “It seems that his legacy is secure; his death assures that he'll be remembered.”

_That_ got a response, an oddly-bitter chuffle that Burr assumed was meant to be a laugh. “Dying seems like a lot less work,” Hamilton answered, finally stringing together a complete sentence.

“We ought to give it a try,” he joked sardonically, and was rewarded with another chuffling non-laugh.

They walked a few steps in silence, and Burr reflected that this may very well be the longest period of time he had ever spent in Hamilton's company that the opinionated man had actually kept quiet. It took another few steps for Burr to wonder if his silence was positive or not. Inwardly, he chuckled at the irony; Hamilton was giving him the peace he wanted, that he was worried would be disturbed by Hamilton's prescience, but instead of gratitude Burr wanted to know  _why_ . Like a child with a stick, he itched to poke the slumbering beast until it invariably awoke and talked his ear off.

He waited until the silence had become unbearable, then decided to throw the other man a bone. “I've heard that you're having some trouble getting your debt plan past Congress?” he commented blandly. There. He'd like to see Hamilton stay quiet now.

“Actually, it's going fine,” Hamilton assured him, with the same bland tone. Burr blinked in surprise. “I'm meeting with Jefferson and Madison later this evening to see if we can't reach a compromise.”

It actually took a moment for Burr to come up with a reply. It was just such a  _reasonable_ response, that it shocked Burr to hear it coming from this infamous firebrand. Then, it clicked exactly what Hamilton had said. “Madison and Jefferson are merciless,” he warned his colleague.

Hamilton actually snorted at that. “Well, hate the sin, love the sinner.” It was almost a taunt.

That was the sort of reaction Burr expected from Hamilton. He readied himself to retort, but was shocked to find himself cut off. “Actually, I'll have to bid you  _adieu_ ,” Hamilton said, looking at his watch. “This is one dinner I cannot miss.” And, just like that, he pivoted and disappeared into the crowd.

Burr tried to suppress the uneasy feeling in the depths of his stomach. Hamilton was a grown man, and a competent politician. He could handle himself.

But, try as he might, Burr couldn't forget the stories he had heard about that pair's “dinner arrangements” and “business meetings”. And he wondered what kind of shape Hamilton would be in when he saw the man next.

* * *

The dinner went by uneventfully.

Alexander made sure to arrive early, wearing his best emerald green coat and waistcoat, and cradling a bottle of the most pretentious wine that he could find as a “thank you” gift for Jefferson. He was escorted in by a blonde middle-aged slave, and took his seat at the dining table.

It might be his imagination, but for a moment he could have sworn that the slave looked at him with something like pity in her eyes. But the moment passes, and he's sure he was just seeing things.

The dinner itself was, of course, as ostentatious as he would have expected. Just as ornate as the room itself. Hand-painted wallpaper in a green pattern so bright it makes his head hurt if he looks at it too long surrounds mahogany furniture that's probably older than he is and worth more than his annual salary. Jefferson insisted on a full four courses, each course consisting of multiple dishes. Proper etiquette dictates that Hamilton eat at least a little bit of everything. Marinated Asparagus, Buttered Onions, Oysters on Skewers, Puffed Eggs, Peas Francoise, all pass on his plate. The main event is a round of both Beef Olives and Onion Pie. Then, naturally, Jefferson had to have a cheese course with cheeses imported from France. Finally, Jefferson rounded the meal out with a new dessert he had fallen in love with in Europe. It's called ice cream. It's intensely sweet, tastes vaguely of vanilla, is covered in a pastry shell, and is so cold it burns the roof of Alexander's mouth. Neither Jefferson nor Madison commented on his reaction, but Jefferson couldn't hide a bit of a smirk. Instead, while he recovers, they chatted about different ice cream flavors. Madison commented that Dolley's favorite flavor is oyster.

Finally, the dinner was finished. And it was finally time to retire to Jefferson's study and get down to business.

* * *

“I'll admit, gentlemen,” Jefferson states, “that I'm not familiar with all the nuances of this fiscal plan of the Colonial’s. I've just returned from France, and haven't had time to delve so deeply into a department that isn't my responsibility.”

Alexander grits his teeth. Bull. Shit. After that performance he pulled in the most recent Cabinet meeting? He might not understand all the 'nuances', but he knew enough to have formed a strong opinion.

Still, Alex isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. And Jefferson, for whatever unfathomable reason, is helping him here. “It's quite simple,” he states. “A single federal bank makes our economy stronger than several state banks. Individually, the states could be financially strong; united, they could be so much more. A centralized bank increases the amount of capital available, allows us to mint a central currency, enables us to set and collect taxes to fund our new nation, and gives us far more negotiating strength when it comes to foreign transactions. It's a scenario where everyone wins.”

“And yet,” Madison retorts, “in centralizing the financial policy and creating a national bank, you've created yet another way for the federal government to lord it over state's rights. It's too much power; it's federal tyranny.”

“So you're saying that you'd prefer to turn down a system that _would_ benefit us, because of a scenario that _might_ happen? We're still in the creation process, Madison. We'll work in checks and balances, make it so that the federal treasury cannot interfere with the rights of each state's treasury, is all.”

“Oh, is that all?” And Hamilton is reminded just how deeply these Southern plantation owners distrust banks.

They debate for hours. Sometimes Jefferson steps in and plays Devil's advocate, trying to get each party to see the issue from the other's point of view. Sometimes, he just sits back and watches it happen. A few times, when Madison comes up with a particularly nasty reply, Alexander catches Jefferson smirking at him. All in all, he's surprisingly fair and unbiased.

It can't last, he knows. He's just doing the best he can, while he waits for the other shoe to drop.

It comes after they agree that Alexander will reintroduce the bill to the House, and Madison won't use his position as House leader to squash it before it gets there but leave it to its fate. Jefferson clears his throat, and jumps right in. “Now that that's settled, gentlemen, there is the problem with the South. We all know that the Southern states are in a much better financial position than the Northern ones, so this financial plan will be a bitter pill to swallow. What will the North offer the South to make this plan go down easier?"

"How about a strong financial future?" Alexander is suggesting before he can think better of it. Neither man deigns to reply.

"The capital," Madison states. "If the banks are in the North, then the capital should be in the South."

"The Potomac," Jefferson agrees. "The geographic center of this nation, and a beautiful part of the country. Hamilton, what say you?"

Of course they want the capital in Virginia. And Alexander has a feeling that they had discussed ahead of time that they'd ask for it. But, honestly? He'd be a fool not to take this bargain. The new Potomac capital might have the political power of their new nation, but he'd make sure that New York had the banks. "I think that that's a fair trade, gentlemen," he states, letting some of the satisfaction he's feeling leak into his voice.

He's surprised when both men start laughing. "It's better than fair," Jefferson corrects, and Alex nods his head in grudging agreement. "Which is why we'll be requiring some extra ... payment, from you. Myself for organizing and mediating this meeting, James for acquiescing to this arrangement."

Extra payment? Oh. He had been wondering when this was going to come up. He hoods his eyes and smirks at Jefferson. "What did you have in mind?" he asks, his voice gone just a little husky.

Jefferson smirks right back. "Oh, I think you know," he answers, shifting to the edge of his seat and spreading his legs.

That's all the invitation Alexander needs. He lays his coat across a nearby chair, and his cravat soon joins it. He starts walking towards where the two Virginians were sitting when Madison stops him. "You might as well remove the waistcoat, as well," he states, his flashing eyes betraying the casual tone of his voice.

That's fine. He has a feeling he'll be completely nude by the time this is all over with, anyway. He removes his waistcoat, and raises an eyebrow at Madison, a sort of _finished now_? look.

He's not. "You don't want to get your breeches dirty," he says, tone still casual but unable to hide an anticipatory grin. Jefferson actually licks his lips before he can stop himself.

Well, fine. He removes his shoes, stockings, and finally his breeches. He stands there in just his shirt, spreading his arms just a bit. Both pairs of eyes zero in on his crotch, which is how he learns that spreading his arms like that is raising the hemline of the shirt, and the tip of his dick is just peeking out from underneath the fabric.

That's enough, he decides. He walks over without a word, drops to the floor in between Jefferson's knees, unbuttons the other man's breeches, and pulls his dick out. Alexander makes eye contact with the man, watches his irises go dark, as Alex kisses the tip and licks away the precome before taking the entire thing in his mouth in one go.

He hears Jefferson curse in surprised pleasure, but ignores the man. It's coming back to him quickly, now; how to open his throat up so he can breathe and not gag, how to swallow so the dick fits comfortably in his mouth, how to situate it on his tongue. He knows how he looks, his own pupils blown and his lips swollen and red around the dick. He swallows again, and traces a vein with his tongue, and Jefferson curses again and breaks eye contact to steady himself.

Alexander is surprised to find that he's enjoying himself. He's always been good with his mouth, and he's taking great satisfaction in taking the other man apart bit by bit. He starts to pull out and plunge back down, thrusting Jefferson's dick in and out. Jefferson catches on, grabs him by the hair, and starts fucking his face in earnest.

It doesn't take long. Just a few minutes, and Alexander feels the hot come shoot down his throat. He makes eye contact with Jefferson as he swallows it, and watches Jefferson's eyes go dark all over again.

Then he turns to Madison. "Your turn," he announces, and starts to shuffle on his knees over to where the other man is sitting.

Madison just laughs. "I don't think so," he says, and stands. Alexander frowns, but stands as well, only for the other man to come up behind him and grab him around the waist. He doesn't kiss; it's not like that. Instead, Madison nips and sucks a line at the pulse-point just below his ear, down his throat, and to his shoulder blades. Alex moans; he can't help it. In response, Madison's hand moves lower and snakes underneath his shirt to grab his dick and start stroking it.

He had been expecting the two men to take without any regard to his pleasure. Madison's attention to his needs is unexpected but welcome. He leans back into the other man, enjoying Madison's attentions, when the whole thing goes to shit.

With no warning whatsoever, Madison lets go of his dick, grabs the hem of his shirt, and pulls it off over his head. That wouldn't be a problem, except instead of pulling it off his arms, he wraps the material around Alexander's wrists and ties it off, essentially tying his hands behind is back with his own shirt.

Alexander neither heard or saw Jefferson move. But before he can protest being tied, that damn walking cane of Jefferson's presses up underneath his chin, nestling itself in the _V_ of his jawbone, and pushes up until he has no choice but to stand almost on his toes. He can't speak, and with his hands tied he can't resist, as Jefferson leads him towards a settee set off from the circle of Windsor chairs they've been sitting on.

He's all but thrown across the armrest of the settee. Face-down on the seat cushion, ass in the air, cock pressed painfully against the wooden core of the armrest, and everything from his asshole to his dick completely on display and vulnerable. He hasn't even completely hit the furniture before he's bouncing back up, struggling to regain his feet. Of course, Jefferson has predicted this move, and he feels the ball of Jefferson's cane settle gently but firmly between his shoulder blades. That's all it takes to hold him down; between the cane and his hands still tied behind his back with his shirt, he just can't get the leverage to push himself up.

He does, however, still have his voice. "What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?!" he demands, trying to twist his shoulders so the cane will roll off his back and he can get out from underneath it.

He's too bony for it to work, though; the cane simply gets caught on the shoulder blade and held more firmly in place than it was before. "Isn't it obvious?" Jefferson asks, voice dripping with dark amusement. He's standing behind the other armrest, facing Alexander's prone body, and holding the cane lightly with one hand. It infuriates Alexander that he's being held down so easily, but there's simply no way to get the leverage to throw it off. Jefferson's other hand comes up underneath Alex's chin and forces him to look up and make eye contact. "I would have been satisfied just seeing you on your knees at my feet, but James here has more demanding tastes." Suddenly, he drops Alexander's chin and slaps him across the face, hard.

Alexander sputters at the unexpected pain. "This wasn't part of our agreement; I never agreed to any of this! Let me up, now!"

"Don't worry, boy," Jefferson sneers. "James will fuck you. Eventually."

Alexander returns the sneer. "I don't want him to _fuck me_ ," he spits out. "I want him to let me up. _Now_."

"Oh, bless your heart," Jefferson coos, voice suddenly syrupy-sweet. "Who said either of us cares what you want?"

Something cold and bitter that tastes suspiciously like fear blossoms in Alexander's stomach. It works its way up his throat and settles in his mouth. Jefferson must have seen its prescience on his face, because his own face is suddenly split in a nasty grin, the sort of grin that makes Alexander sure that his evening just took a turn for the torturous.

He's proven right immediately. Madison's hands are suddenly kneading his ass cheeks, spreading them open. Alexander jumps despite himself when a finger is suddenly brushed along the rim of his hole. Madison laughs at the involuntary reaction. "This is going to be fun," he says gleefully, like a child with a new toy.

"But first," Jefferson chimes in, "our guest has been rather rude and insolent. I believe that he needs to be taught some manners." He gestures to something beyond Alex's line of sight. "James? Would you like to do the honors?"

"Certainly," Madison says, and cold air hits his bare thighs as Madison steps away. He can hear the man opening a drawer, fumbling around for something, then shut it. He has just enough time to wonder what they're about to do to him, when the backs of his thighs erupts in a sharp, burning agony.

He cries out, from both the shock and the pain. Jefferson actually chuckles at his reaction. "James' riding crop really is a thing of beauty," he said. "Supple leather loop, genuine silver wiring, and that tortoiseshell handle? It isn't a tool so much as a piece of art. Wouldn't you agree?" He knows what to expect, now, so he catches the _snap_ a split second before a new line of pain appears just below the first.

Then Madison begins to take him apart. The crop snaps as he hits Alexander again. And again. And again. He layers the strikes, building up the torture in one area before moving on to another. He hits him with the shaft of the crop, a cutting line of pain across his entire body. He hits him with just the leather loop, a razor-sharp sting that's somehow even worse. He strikes without warning, delivering several strikes in rapid succession. He trails the tip of the crop along Alex's skin, making him quiver beneath the cold leather, before delivering a precise hit.

Through the whole ordeal, Jefferson watches him intently. The expression on his face would be almost clinical, if his pupils weren't blown so wide there's no iris visible. He holds that eye contact with Jefferson, funneling all his focus into staring Jefferson down, desperately trying to detach himself from what Madison is doing to him.

It works for a time. He has no idea how long he's been there, how many strokes he's taken from the crop, when Madison makes a lucky hit to a particularly sensitive spot on the back of his knee. Pain, white-hot searing pain, leaves him seeing spots. He holds it together enough to not cry out, but he can't help the whimper that escapes his lips or the way he breaks eye contact with Jefferson. That's all either men need to know that they've found a weakness to exploit. All of a sudden, Madison is delivering rapid-fire blows, again and again, with the leather of the crop to that same spot. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep from screaming, but he's less and less successful with each hit. It's only when the cut on his lip starts to sting that he realizes that he's sobbing.

“Please.” The plea leaves his mouth unbidden, an involuntary whisper. But it's enough. Suddenly, Jefferson grabs a handful of hair and yanks his head up, forcing eye contact.

“Please what?” Jefferson demands. Madison uses the shaft of the crop along the backs of both knees.

“P-please, please stop!” He's beyond the embarrassment that his broken voice should cause him.

“Now, why would we do a thing like that?” Jefferson sneers. “This is far too entertaining.”

Even here, even now, his brain is diamond-sharp. He instantly realizes what Jefferson wants. “Fuck me. I don't care. Just, please, stop. Please.”

The crop runs up the back of his left thigh, before delivering a brutal triple strike that has him moaning in pain.

“Fuck you?” Damn him, Jefferson is going to make him beg for it.

“Please. Use my ass, use my mouth, I don't care!”

“Are you sure?”

The crop runs along the bottom of his left ass cheek, before gently caressing his balls.

He gasps at the implication, of what's about to happen. “Yes! Yes! Please! Fuck me, I'm begging you!”

“Why, Hamilton, I didn't realize you wanted it so badly!” Jefferson mocks. “Of course we'll give you what you want! Such an earnest plea deserves it.”

He hears Madison shuffling behind him, putting the crop away, and he gasps in huge mouthfuls of air. It's over. It's over, and he can take anything they do to him from here out.

He whimpers again as Madison grabs two handfuls of his raw ass and spreads his cheeks apart, then flinches when something wet and warm hits his asshole as Madison spits on it. That's his only warning as a finger forces its way into him.

He tries to relax, but Madison is moving too fast. Before he knows it, another finger has been added. They scissor a few times before pulling out. He's waiting for a third finger when, instead, Madison slams himself in to the hilt.

The pain almost causes him to pass out. He screams, and desperately tries to relax, but it's no use. He's bone dry, barely prepped, and Madison's pounding him hard enough that he feels the impact up his spine every time Madison slams in.

Time loses its meaning. It could be centuries or seconds later that he feels the hot spurt of Madison's seed fill him, and Madison finally withdraw. He's sobbing uncontrollably by this point, even the concept of dignity fallen by the wayside. Then Jefferson takes Madison's place, and it's somehow even worse, because while Madison relies on brute force to get off, Jefferson is a damned marksman who manages to hit his prostate every time, forcing him into a state of euphoric arousal and excruciating agony. For the first time in his life, he's hard and he doesn't even care.

Jefferson finally finishes, pulling out to come on his back. They leave him there, sticky with sweat and come, absolutely wrecked, half-hard, and still sobbing.

* * *

Empires rise and crumble and stars are born and die before the same blonde slave comes to retrieve him. He's not sure if they sent in a female as a kindness or a further humiliation, but he's too far gone to care either way.

She won't look at him as she strokes him off into a handkerchief. He whimpers and starts to protest, still too sensitive, but she shushes him. There's no pleasure, just relief, when he comes. She cleans him off, dresses his wounds, unties him, helps him into a sitting position, and wraps a blanket around him, all with an efficiency that has implications he can't think about. The furtive way she moves leads him to believe that the glass of spiced wine she presses into his hand is the only thing that she's done that wasn't ordered.

She leaves him to recover in peace.

The clock in the hallway chimes twice before he stops shaking enough to dress and leave.

* * *

Hamilton got his bank. The son of a bitch did it. He may have sold out New York in the process, but it won him unprecedented control of the new nation's financial system.

So why, Burr wondered when he ran into the man a few days later at a local tavern, did he look anything but victorious?

Burr slid onto the bench across the table from Hamilton. “I hear that congratulations are in order,” he greeted the man.

Hamilton didn't even look up from his mug. “The capital will be moved to the Potomac,” he said.

Burr had to laugh at that. “Does it matter where the capital is?” he asked.

Hamilton snorted at that, a laugh that didn't sound very amused. “We'll have the banks,” he admitted. “That won't change.”

“You got more than you gave,” Burr commented, impressed despite himself. Then was immediately confused and more than a little concerned by the stricken look that crossed Hamilton's face. “You _did_ get more than you gave, right?” he asked, wondering what he was missing.

Hamilton just shrugged, and shifted on the bench. For just a moment, just a split second, something that looked suspiciously like pain crossed his face. Like it pained him to move. Burr thought about that, added it to the man's split lip and the rumors he had heard, and felt his face blanch. “Right, Hamilton?”

“I wanted what I got,” the other man said. But the words came out choked, and he wouldn't look at Burr while he said them.

“And what was that?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “What did you want?”

Hamilton snorted again. “What I wanted, what I _want_ , is to build something that's going to outlive me.” With that, he snatched up his mug and took a swig of whatever was in it. Just before the liquid hit his lips, Burr could have sworn he heard the man mumble something that sounded suspiciously like, “God help me.”

The more he talked, the more concerned Burr was getting. “Hamilton?”

“There was too much at stake,” Hamilton said in way of explanation, as he finally looked up and met Burr's eyes. His own were almost pleading Burr to understand. Pleading for forgiveness. “When you have skin in the game, you have to play. You don't win unless you play the game all the way through, to the end.”

Burr was growing more and more concerned by the minute. Concerned, and disturbed. “Hamilton?” he tried again.

“I got what I wanted, and I wanted what I got!” Hamilton insisted, slamming his mug down in a sudden flash of anger. “What about you, Burr? What do you want? Do you have any idea?” Burr opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get a single word out, Hamilton growled in frustration and stormed out the door.

Burr watched him go. The thought of Hamilton on his knees at Jefferson's feet disgusted him. Disgusted, and somehow aroused? He considered what it would look like if Hamilton was kneeling before him instead of Jefferson, that tousled black hair a wreck, the way his lips would look wrapped around Burr's dark skin, Burr's hand caressing his cheek instead of Jefferson's slaps. He considered it, and wondered.

Hamilton had asked Burr what it was that he wanted. Burr was beginning to find out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The Compromise of 1790, a.k.a. the "Dinner-Table Bargain", took place on or around June 20, 1790, at Jefferson's New York City residence at 57 Maiden Lane. (And, yes, the 20th was a Sunday.)
> 
> At that point, the president's residence in the city had moved from the Samuel Osgood House (a.k.a the Walter Franklin House, a.k.a. the First Presidential Mansion), located at the northeast corner of Pearl and Cherry Streets in Manhattan. The Samuel Osgood House had housed the president and his household and his household staff (*koff*slaves*koff*) from April 23, 1789 to February 23, 1790. The president then moved to the Alexander Macomb House (a.k.a. the Second Presidential Mansion), located at 39-41 Broadway in Manhattan. That served as the president's home from February 23 to August 30, 1790, at which point everyone picked up and moved to Philadelphia.
> 
> What exactly happened during that meeting, no one knows. Literally the only account we have of that meeting was written by Jefferson, after the fact, and he isn't exactly a reliable narrator. You can read the whole thing [here](http://oll.libertyfund.org/pages/1790-jefferson-memorandum-on-the-compromise-of-1790), if you'd like. I recommend it, it's actually a pretty amusing read. It should come as no surprise that the account paints Jefferson in a favorable light, and Hamilton as the literal devil.
> 
> Hamilton did get his national bank, obviously. And, in real life, he probably didn't have to get spanked to get it, either. The "First Report on the Public Credit" (or the "Assumptions Act") passed in July 1790. Naturally, it was 40,000 words long, because Hamilton. During his term (1801-1809) Jefferson desperately tried to reverse the financial plan. During his subsequent term (1809-1817) Madison picked up where Jefferson dropped off ... right up until the War of 1812, where Madison realized just how much credit Hamilton had given the new nation, and desperately tried to reverse the reversal.
> 
> The "Residence Act" was signed into law July 16, 1790 and located the permanent United States capital on the Potomac River, to encompass an area of "no more than ten miles square" - as in, ten miles by ten miles, or 100 square miles. Washington himself chose the exact location. The Federal Government paid for the construction, and the Act detailed that the government offices (including somewhere for Congress to meet) had to be ready by December 1, 1800. The new city actually included two existing cities - Georgetown, MD and Alexandria, VA. Everything was peaches until the War of 1812 (see above) when the British burned the whole thing to the ground. It was rebuilt, obviously.
> 
> I based Madison's riding crop on [this one](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/2f/b9/71/2fb971069abfc6e99a9f3f1bc303b624.jpg). You don't want to know how long I spent researching the proper way to use a riding crop, both on horses and on people.
> 
>  **EDIT:** Completely forgot to tell you guys! I know that Jefferson is famous within the fandom for loving mac n' cheese, and making it popular in the United States. But he did the same for a bunch of other foods, including ice cream. He fell in love with the stuff while in France during the Revolutionary War, and brought back a bunch of handwritten recipes and an "ice cream freezer" so he could make it at home. He then proceeded to sit back and watch the fun as his guests tried to wrap their brain around this stuff. They described it in terms like "balls of frozen material inclosed [sic] in covers of warm pastry, exhibiting a curious contrast, as if the ice had just been taken from the oven" (Representative Samuel Latham Mitchili), so I've pictured the "ice cream" served by Jefferson as something like modern-day fried ice cream. If you'd like, you can read his recipe [here](https://www.monticello.org/site/research-and-collections/ice-cream). And, yes, Dolley Madison's favorite flavor was oyster; and, yes, I gag a little bit every time I think about that.


End file.
